


Stock

by daftfear



Series: The Whole Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, PWP, Rating: NC17, Smut, UST, coarse language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2230779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daftfear/pseuds/daftfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to Lock] There's more than one way to submit to someone, and Draco will teach Harry that if it kills him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stock

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my short oneshot [Lock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2215941), so please read that first. I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this, but it's my birthday, so why not celebrate with some smut? :D I hope you enjoy this and, again, please let me know if you do! The final section will be up soon. <3

Stock

It’s hot. The air is thick with perspiration and panting, heavy breaths. I press against him, my chest to his back. Our robes still trapped frustratingly between us, I can feel the sweat between his shoulder blades. The nape of his neck is slick. My face buried in his mop of unruly black hair, I can almost taste the musk of him. He twists against me, his hands desperate, searching as they grope at my shoulder and the elbow at his neck. He leans forward, his arse pressing hard against me, and twists. 

All I can think as he breaks my chokehold is that we fit together perfectly, like the missing tiles to each other’s chipping mosaic.

My back slams to the ground and the wind is knocked out of me. Potter’s hands are wrapped around my arm, his grip vise-like, full of purpose. My skin sears, I can feel the red welts blooming beneath his fingers, but he hasn’t won yet. I twist my arm and break his hold, as he launches downward to pin me. 

One arm outstretched, stiff and precise, I knock him off-balance and to the ground. He groans as he hits the floor, and I’m on top of him, legs wrapped around him. Driving my hips forward, I grind into him, pinning him in a mount. Beneath me, I feel him squirm, I feel him harden, just a bit. Potter’s lips part, his breathing more laboured than ever, but that could be from my weight on his chest.

Laying all my weight down as hard as I can, I slide my arm beneath his neck, pressing my bicep to his throat. 

“C’mon, Harry! Get up!” Weasley’s voice bellows from the sidelines. “You’re not gonna lose to that little ferret, are you?”

As though punched in the gut, I can’t breathe. Potter writhes beneath me, clearly exhausted from his previous sparring matches. Auror training is ruthless sometimes. 

“You’re not just going to lie down and take it, are yeh, Harry?” Finnigan’s voice joins the chorus of cheers from the edge of the room. 

Pressing my mouth to his ear, I pull the lobe between my teeth and nibble. 

“I don’t know,” I say so no one else can hear me. “I thought this was where you liked me, Potter. Isn’t ground and pound your favourite position?”

“Come on, Harry! Take Malfoy down!”

An elbow to my side, followed by a hook to the side of my head and I’m seeing stars. My hold is broken, thrown by his sudden energy, and suddenly Potter is on top. He pulls my hand behind my back and twists my arm upward until I’m certain it will break.

“Yield,” Potter says. I grit my teeth, fighting the shards of pain shooting through my shoulder. He pushes harder, as though he’s willing to dislocate my arm if necessary. My eyes are screwed shut, my teeth radiating pain as I grind them together, trying to find purchase on the ground to push up. “Damn it, Malfoy, yield!”

I feel it—the moment before blacking out. I won’t let him knock me out. Not in front of them.

Refusing to speak, I tap the mat again and again. Within an instant, Potter releases my arm and a rush of relief floods me, followed closely by shame and the deep muscle soreness of defeat.

Then Potter is off me, and all I can hear is the cheering chorus that greets him. Face in the mat, I exhale a slow, calculated breath and push myself up. Summoning my towel and water, I rub at the streams of sweat pouring down my face and neck. The training robes they gave us, all identical, uninspired shifts of grey fabric, are soaked through to my waist, the cloth clinging to my chest and stomach like skin on a selkie. 

“Good on you, mate,” Weasley tells Potter. “Knew you’d never let a prat like Malfoy beat you.”

“Of course not,” Potter says with a laugh. “Not a chance without him cheating.”

I suck down the water from my canister and toss it to the side when I’m finished. 

“You comin’ to the Leaky for a pint then?” another Gryffindor—Spinnet, I think—asks him. One glance over to the group of them, and I find myself wondering what insanity possessed me to join the Aurors—land of the Gryffindors.

As if those things mean anything anymore.

I pull the sodden robes over my head and am left standing wearing only my training trousers. 

“Yeah. You lot go ahead,” Potter says. “I’ll meet you there.”

With a painful slowness, everyone files out of the sparring room until only Potter and I remain. He comes over to the bench to collect his towel for the showers. With a wordless flick of my wand I lock all the doors before he can escape.

Potter stops and turns to face me. His cheeks are pink—too pink, I think, for physical exertion. He says nothing but takes stock of me. His eyes travel the length of me. The look is predatory, hungry, but I don’t feel vulnerable. I feel powerful.

“Can’t win but for cheating, can I?” I ask, walking toward him. With subtle flicks of my wand, I cast silencing spells and wards to stop unwanted entry. Potter stares at me as though he knows, and he just doesn’t care.

“Well, you haven’t beaten me yet, have you?” he says, and mischief glints in his green eyes. The flush on his face is inviting, the heave of his chest nearly begging. 

“I’m not so sure,” I say, and before he can move, I cast one more spell. With a rush of wind, Potter is knocked into the wall behind him, his hands pinned to the wall above his head as though bound in the stocks. He gasps, his head tilted back to expose the delectable flesh of his neck. “I can think of a handful of scenarios where you submitted to me.”

With eyes like green fire, Potter stares me down, chest heaving. I take my time walking toward him. His grey robes strain over his chest, wet and clinging like mine were. I raise my wand to his throat, pressing the tip to his skin. His jaw tightens for a moment as I match his gaze. Drawing the wand downward, I split the robes down the middle, cutting them from his frame to reveal the sweat-slick surface of his chest and stomach. 

“I can’t seem to remember,” Potter says, taunting me. I lean in close, my lips only a hair’s breadth away from his. 

“Shall I refresh your memory?” I whisper, closing the gap between our bodies until I can feel the tickle of his hair standing on end. His mouth open, he strains his neck to capture my mouth, and it takes every ounce of my discipline to pull away and deny him that. He makes a sound of frustration every time he fails to kiss me. The muscles on his arms are taught with the effort to fight the binding spell. “I think I’ll make you earn it,” I say. “All you need to do is yield.”

Potter shuts his mouth, his face set, determined. A smile plays at my lips. 

“Have it your way.” I skin his mouth and lean in to his neck, the ends of my hair trailing just barely across his skin. He shivers again, and I exhale against the skin just beneath his ear. “I don’t mind drawing it out of you.”

“And how will I explain my lateness to Ron and the others?” he asks, and I wonder if he thinks that counts as playful banter. 

“You could tell them you were late because Draco Malfoy was fucking you blind in the sparring room,” I say, one hand rubbing against his ever-hardening shaft beneath his trousers.   
“Yeah, right,” he laughs through a moan. “Like I could say that.”

“Lies don’t suit you, Golden Boy,” I say, sucking roughly at a patch of skin just below his collar. Potter slides his leg up, thighs pressed to me, eager for more contact. 

“They do for this. They would never understand.”

I laugh, despite myself, and leave a bright red mark behind on his chest. 

“You’ve been with men before. I know you have.”

“No it’s not that,” he says. “It’s not about being with a man. It’s about being with you.” I pull away sharply, my entire body aflame. He looks into my eyes, his pupils almost blotting out the green. “You know what I mean.”

Steeling myself against the shooting cold in my belly, I set my jaw. 

I understand.

Hands roving over his body, I press close to him. He arches into me, the wanting draped across him in banners. He can play all the games he chooses, lie to himself, but I know the truth. Every move I make, he meets me, bends with me, cries for me.

It’ll always be me.

I trail a line of wet kisses down his collarbone, along his chest, nipping at the tender skip of his nipples. He tastes of salt and sandalwood and the smoke of a hearth fire. He groans, fighting the bonds, but says nothing.

Grabbing the hem of his trousers, I pull them down to expose his hard cock and get down on my knees. His eyes follow me down, his mouth open and hopeful but full of disbelief. My hands are on his arse, massaging the swell of it, and I pull him toward me, angling him away from the wall. His breath hitches as I breathe on the shaft of his cock, my eyes locked to his. But instead of pulling him into my mouth, I sink lower, intent on something else.

A sound close to a whine escapes Potter’s mouth as I suck on his testicles, one at a time, letting only my hair brush over his cock. His body is rigid, the line of him curved into me, He is on his toes, pushing himself up on the wall to find a better way to move.

“Yield,” I command, but he screws up his face and shakes his head. 

“Fuck, Malfoy,” he gasps as I draw thick, wet lines over his inner-thighs with my tongue. 

“Yield,” I say again. He groans. The tip of his cock beads little clear droplets. He bucks into me, but I pull away, refusing to give him what he wants until I get mine. “Yield!”

“I yield!” he cries, more desperate than I’ve ever seen him. 

I slide his cock into my mouth, thick and weeping. He twitches and shudders against me, his entire body screaming for release. Potter thrusts into my mouth as I suck, swirling my tongue around the crown of his cock, my hands gripping tightly to his arse to control his movements. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, his voice pitching high. “Yes, fuck, just like that!”

I move my head against him, pulling him in to the base when I can, letting him buck wildly. The sharp, salty taste at the back of my throat fills my senses. I want him to come, I want to taste it. My eyes are trained on him, with his head thrown back, his mouth open and screaming for me.

“Fuck, so close.” I feel him twitch again, his entire body tensing. And just like that, I pull away, dropping his cock from my mouth and wiping the saliva from my lips. 

Bewildered, he looks down at me with wide eyes, panting. Getting to my feet, I ignore the painful throb of my own cock, the pressure of it against my pants. My head is spinning, all the blood gone elsewhere, and I can barely stand for the need to have him again.

“This is it, Potter,” I say, and his eyes search mine. “If you want me, you have to take everything that comes with it. I won’t be your dirty secret anymore. You either get me in front of everyone, or you don’t get me at all.”

I turn, my tongue running over my lips to soak up the last shred of his taste, and pick up my things. Pulling my casual robes over my head to cover my still-throbbing erection, I walked to the door and unlock it. I have to commit everything of myself to the action, or I know I won’t leave. I’ll go back to him again.

Before I leave, I say, “Come find me when you remember your courage.” 

Dropping the spell that binds him, I disappear out the door before he can follow me. The heady taste of his cock in my mouth clouds my head, and I wonder if I’ll ever want to drink of anyone like I want to swallow him. I don’t really want an answer, but I know what it is.

It’ll always just be him.


End file.
